Author: AKMA

As we were extracting varied booty from the buried treasure of our cardboard box and packing tape collection, I encountered a box marked “Mugs and Utensils.” Since we haven’t yet located the electric kettle, I dared hope that this box might contain the vital necessity for making hot coffee (Pippa already recovered the French press and the coffee grinder, bless her soul).
 
So I opened the box and pulled out — three volumes of paperbacks on The Art of Star Wars. Quoth I, “Mugs, utensils, and Star Wars?” Margaret rejoined, “Where’s David Weinberger when you need him?”

Now that we’ve alit in Durham, we can look back at our summer travels. In conversation with Mark, it occurred to me to work out just how far we’ve come. Beginning somewhat arbitrarily with our departure from Princeton in early June, this is what we’ve done:
 
Princeton to Pittsburgh (memorial event for my Dad): 336 mi.
Pittsburgh to Evanston (packing week): 480 mi.
Evanston to Ypsilanti (visit Nate and Laura): 270 mi.
Ypsilanti to Princeton (return trip): 613 mi.
Princeton to Baltimore and back (Loyola faculty picnic): 262 mi.
Princeton to Hyannis (to ferry to visit Mom): 303 mi.
Hyannis to Boston (drop Pippa off, visit Taylor-Coolmans): 71 mi.
Boston to Princeton (return trip): 266 mi.
Princeton to Durham (first load): 449 mi.
Durham to Chicago (via air; we didn’t drive this leg, so I’m not counting it)
Evanston to Indianapolis (big-ass truck evening one): 203 mi.
Indianapolis to Johnson City (big-ass truck, day two): 460 mi.
Johnson City to Durham (big-ass truck, last leg): 219 mi.
Durham back to Princeton (return trip): 449 mi.
Princeton to Durham (second load, round trip): 898 mi.
Princeton to Framingham (on our way): 246 mi.
Framingham to Augusta to Brunswick (See Pippa’s play): 216 mi.
Brunswick to Damariscotta to Quincy (pick Pippa up, visit Himmers): 219 mi.
Quincy to Shoreham NY (visit Clevengers): 139 mi (not counting ferry mileage)
Shoreham to Baltimore (see Orioles, visit Fowls): 246 mi.
Baltimore to Durham (phew!): 323 mi.
 
That’s a total of 6,668 driving miles this summer. That’s roughly a round trip from Fort Kent, Maine, to San Diego. That’s roughly the distance from New York to Kabul. At 60 mph, that’s 396 hours in the car/truck cab. At an average of 20 mpg (a guess, between the Subaru and the rental vehicles) and at $4 a gallon, that’s $1,333.60 in gasoline. We won’t even calculate the collateral expenses of prepared food, hotels, and wear and tear on our flesh and spirit.

 
In Durham — hot and tired, but here.

 This morning we plan to leave Baltimore at about 9 AM; barring breakdown or exceptionally bad traffic, we should be in Durham by late afternoon. Right about now, I feel as though I want to never travel again.

 
Margaret arranged that I go to today’s Orioles game, in really terrific seats. Steve took Pippa and Brendan and Liam with us, and we got to watch the Rangers paste the home team by a disheartening margin. It was Senior Citizens Day, and the gate attendant thrust an Orioles minifan (battery powered) into my hand, since I’m 50. But Camden Yard looks great.
 

 
And tomorrow, we land in Durham, God willing.

The drive from Lawn Guyland to Baltimore was interrupted by a nasty traffic jam on the Jersey Pike, slowing us down considerably (we travelled about eleven miles in an hour of stop-and-go driving), but we travelled smoothly the rest of the way and pulled into Baltimore a while ago. We were cramped up from being squeezed into the car for hours, so Melinda suggested a nice walk in the woods adjacent to their house.
 
That sounded good to all of us, so we headed out along the path that leads along Gunpowder Falls and its tributary creek, Pippa and Melinda in the lead, Margaret and Steve and I following. After we got more than halfway in and looped back to our starting-point, I picked up the pace to walk with Melinda, and Pip bounced ahead of us like the Tigger she resembles in energy reserves and leg strength.
 
After a quarter mile or so, we lost sight of Pippa — who, presumably, had sprinted ahead of us to spring out from concealment and surprise us. We called a couple of times, but received no answer (which tended to confirm our suspicion that she was either hiding or hurrying home ahead of us. Alas, when we got back to Chateau Fowl, Pippa was not there.
 
So with a father’s determined energy, I jogged back into the forest, accompanied by Melinda. I’d holler “PIPPA!” every minute or two, but only chirping birds and scuttling squirrels responded. At length, I thought I heard Pippa’s distinctive loon call, and when I shouted that we were coming, she answered “I’m here!” We connected in just a couple of minutes, and got back home safely before dark. No injuries, no panic, just a short interval of active concern.
 
On the original part of the walk, I told Meilnda how good it feels to stretch out my Achilles tendon and plantar fascia. This was true, and my foot and heel have in general been bothering me a great deal less since I started stretching them frequently during the day (and taking naproxen once or twice a day). Right about now, though, my foot hurts a bit, and I could use a shower. Which I think I’ll take.
 
On the other hand, our little lassie is home safely, without damage and without having to call out the rescue squad. She who once was lost, now is found. Thanks be to God!

This afternoon, the whole summer’s worth of stress crashed down on me. I’m beat.

With very limited access to the Net, I’ve allowed myself to fall far behind in noting what’s been going on here. Saturday, Margaret and I spent the evening with friends from long ago at the former Alpha Rho Upsilon house (now named Helmreich House after Ernst Helmreich, beloved professor of history at Bowdoin and grandfather of two of our friends).
 

 
We saw more old friends than I can name here; it was a great joy to reunite with them and to meet the many who came to ARU after us. Add to them all the number of our friends who would have liked to celebrate with us, but for one reason or another could not, and the occasion touched very many of us. Late in the evening, JB recited “Gunga Din” in honor of Rich Herzog; we drank a toast in his honor, and dreamt of glad times with him.
 

 
Margaret and I were staying at a hotel out the Bath Road past this house, where Joe and I once lived. Back in our day, it was rather less polished, but it was home for a number of us. And at least it was in better condition than the Silver Palace, the house across the street.
 
We saw Pippa in The Three Musketeers again on Sunday. (The stark lighting and the lack of controls on my camera account for the washed-out faces.)
 

 
Monday we visited with Pat and Dick at Damariscotta Lake, which was so much excitement that Beatrice needed to relax and unwind.
 

 
And yesterday we resumed our slow odyssey to Durham. We left Maine in the morning, and paused for a visit to Margaret’s hometown, Rockport Massachusetts, and the church her dad served as rector, where Margaret and I were married.
 

 
From there, we motored south to Quincy, to check up on Project X. It’s not that we doubted that Steve and Sage were presiding over the birth and growth of a fascinating young woman — just, when you’re dealing with writers of fiction, it’s worth looking into the details for yourself. Margaret made some up-close observations, and we agree that Gretchen belongs to the category of those most wonderful young people who will change the world markedly for the better, if the rest of us don’t louse it up first.
 

 
After all of which, we hunkered down in our humble Red Roof and yielded to slumber’s irresistible importunity. The rest of today should be an easy-paced recuperation, then we’ll set off for Long Island tomorrow.

We stayed at a Day’s Inn outside Brunswick for the weekend, and over and above the small ways it departed from its advertised characteristics (no newspaper, no eggs at the breakfast) or fulfilled them in awkward ways (no pets in non-smoking rooms), the advertised wifi has been a dreadful pain. It evidently uses a proxy server that itself slows down connections, then it seems to drop the signal at frequent intervals — whether inadvertently, through weak engineering, or deliberately, to prevent guests from engaging in long, heavy sessions (such as downloading a movie or playing Warcraft).
 
What a headache! Broadband connectivity is not so complicated nor so expensive that even an economy hotel should need to make it hard to use. Allons enfants de Blogaria! La jour d’internet à haut débit serait bientôt arrivée!

The other day we drove through Bowdoinham and Topsham, and this summer we’ll be staying in Shoreham and living in Durham, all of which led me to wonder: whatever happened to the linguistic gesture of naming municipalities with the “-ham” suffix? “-Ville” and “-Ton/-Town” still do all right, but I don’t recall any civic entity recently naming itself a “-ham.” Where did they go?

We saw The Three Musketeers last night — we’ll see it again tomorrow — but we were knocked out once again by how terrific an actor our Pippa is.
 

 
Tonight we’re at a reunion with friends from college. It’s good.

This summer I’ve remembered, in various places, some of the gifts my Dad gave me. When both of Margaret’s Tevas spontaneously fell apart, I recalled his reading “The Deacon’s Masterpiece” to me. When the Carter Family came up on the iPod, I remembered his playing the ukelele and singing “Worried Man Blues.” Then later on, a radio show (perhaps American Routes, perhaps Back Porch Music) played another song he used to sing. It wasn’t “The Fox Went Out On A Chilly Night,” but it was something like that.
 
As I was clearing up my work table at the townhouse, I uncovered a Christmas card Dad sent us. He won’t send any more, but we’ll be receiving gifts from him as long as I hear and remember.